


Taking Liberties

by Baroness_Blixen



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bantering, F/M, Fluff, Season 6/7, from ust to rst, mulder and scully fraternizing in the same motel room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22845643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baroness_Blixen/pseuds/Baroness_Blixen
Summary: One night while on a case, Mulder and Scully find themselves in her motel room, just talking and maybe - just maybe - taking the next step in their relationship.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 28
Kudos: 198
Collections: X-Files Fluff Fanfic Exchange (2020)





	Taking Liberties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starbuck09256](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starbuck09256/gifts).



> My prompt was to write whatever my fluffy heart desires! That was way harder than I thought it would be :) I hope you enjoy what my heart - and mind - came up with.
> 
> Thank you to Slippin' Mickeys for the beta.

“So, this is what you like to watch?” Mulder is leaning against the doorframe – damn adjoining hotel rooms in this small town somewhere in Ohio – and grins at her.

“No,” she says, searching for the remote control. It’s not there. Her cheeks feel warm and she can only imagine what she looks like sitting here with her pajamas on, her still damp hair in a tiny, loose ponytail. While he looks perfect in his jeans and t-shirt. He shouldn’t be here, in her room. But that’s Mulder, doing whatever he wants.

“It was… there wasn’t anything- I just wanted some background noise,” she says.

Where is that damn remote control?

“It’s all right, Scully. I still like you.” He walks into her hotel room as if it were his own. He joins her on the bed, careful not to sit on her notes. Or her vending machine candy. “It’s just not my kind of show.”

“Of course not,” she says, saving a Twinkie from his greedy hands, “the people at award shows are dressed.”

“More or less.” The Twinkie taken away from him, he steals a Butterfinger. She watches him unwrap the candy and stuff it into his mouth. He’s taking liberties; not asking if he’s welcome in her room, on her bed, to share her food. “Don’t you think these things are ridiculous?”

She wants to say that he’s ridiculous with that smudge of chocolate just over his top lip. Chocolate that he stole from her. But she doesn’t say it. In fact, she doesn’t say anything.

“It’s fake,” he goes on. “Just look at their smiles. Who are they dressing up for?”

“It’s nice to dress up every once in a while.”

“She speaks! Hm, what would Dana Scully wear on the red carpet?” Mulder puts his finger on his chin, pretending to think. He looks at the screen, where some TV actress Scully has forgotten the name of, walks on the arm of a well-dressed, handsome guy. They’re both grinning and showing teeth. Mulder is right. These smiles are ridiculous.

“I’ll never walk the red carpet, so the question is moot. Can I go back to my notes now, please?”

He snatches the loose papers from her. “Just pretend, Scully. For a moment. What would you be wearing?” There’s a gleam in his eyes, one she has trouble resisting. She feels a sigh in her throat; she knows she’s going to indulge him in this strange fantasy. But two can play at this game.

“Who am I going with?” she asks him. Of course she knows the answer. There’s only person she’d want to walk a red carpet with and it’s neither George Clooney nor Brad Pitt. And she’s sure Mulder knows it too. His sheepish smile says as much.

“No one cares what the guy looks like anyway.”

“I care. What are you wearing?”

He shakes his head. “I asked you first.”

“I don’t want to walk the red carpet.”

“Scully, it’s a game. Fine, I’m wearing a black Armani tux.”

“Tie or bowtie?”

“Which one would you prefer?” She looks at him. He wears ties every day and he’s not good at picking them out. A bowtie. She tries to picture him with one and the thought puts a smile on her face.

“Bowtie.”

“Fine.”

“But I still don’t want to walk the red carpet.”

Mulder sighs and stares at her, exasperated. “Why not?”

“That’s not really…” It’s not her. Most of all, though, it’s not them.

His eyes soften and she knows he gets it without her having to say it. His voice is gentle when he asks “where do you want to go instead? The movies? Nah, not fancy enough. A play? A night at the opera?” All his suggestions make her skin tingle. All of them sound like dates.

Are they ready for a…date?

“The opera sounds nice.” She barely glances at him, her voice nonchalant and she hopes he can’t tell how nervous she feels.

“Hmm, I could do that. Mozart or Verdi, Scully?”

“Puccini,” she says. “Tosca.” She’s always wanted to see it. There was never any time. No one to go with either.

“Hm.” He scoots closer to her, his knees bumping against hers. They look like a couple of teenagers, talking about their crushes. Just like she and Melissa used to do. Their heads close together, their voices and giggles hushed in case Charlie or Bill were eavesdropping. What would Melissa say, she wonders, about her and Mulder? She’s never had the chance to whisper about him, to confide in her sister. _He’s just a friend_ had been her mantra when her sister was still alive. What would she say now that she was no longer in denial? There’s a pinch in her heart when she thinks about Missy. It’s the same every time. It doesn’t take much to remember, to imagine. Her sister would smile knowingly, would take her hands into hers and look into her eyes, revealing that she’s known for a while, maybe even before she did. Before both of them did.

“I thought you’d pick a German composer.” She doesn’t know how long she’s zoned out, but there’s Mulder staring at her intently. The truth is, she doesn’t care. Puccini, Mozart or Bizet. All she wants to see is Mulder in a tuxedo, looking handsome. They’d hold hands and walk side by side like a normal couple. That’s when the picture bursts before her mental eye. They’re not a couple. They’re not normal. And just like that, the game ends. She doesn’t want to play anymore.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, picking up the candy wrappers from her bed. Mulder’s eyes follow her as she gets up and dumps them in the small trash can. She stays there, at a safe distance from him. This is her hotel room, hell, her bed, and yet, she is the one standing over here. She is the one considering leaving.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Picking up on her mood, he’s throwing her an apologetic look. He smiles, quietly asking her to return, to keep playing this game. But how long can they do this? Play games? Her whole body is thrumming with possibility. Something is happening here tonight and they both feel it.

“You didn’t,” she says as a way of apology, sitting back down. She puts distance between them so that their knees are no longer touching.

“It doesn’t have to be the opera.” He can’t give up. Whether it’s looking for lights in the sky or this, but giving up, letting it go, is not Mulder’s thing. It’s such a frustrating trait of his that she can’t help but laugh. Can’t help but find him endearing either. Without that stubbornness, where would she be? It’s what’s saved her a hundred times. He’ll jump on trains if he has to, find her in Antarctica, make the impossible possible. That’s her Mulder.

Now, his face is open, vulnerable. His questions are not meant to hurt her, no matter how awkward they might be. He’s jumping again and he’s asking her to jump with him.

“We, um, we could talk about what you would be wearing. You never answered that.” His smile disarms her. She knows she’s going to keep playing this game after all. Jump right after him, fear be damned.

Instead of answering him, though, she looks at the screen behind him. The rich and beautiful are still filling in the auditorium. Mulder’s eyes are on her, waiting, but she’s staring at one of the actresses on the small screen. She’s seen her before but doesn’t remember her name. Melissa would know. Her sister always knew who was dating who, who was wearing what. She smiles, thinking of her sister. She was her window to the real world, a glimpse away from her books and her science.

“That,” Scully says. “I’d wear that.” Mulder turns around to look at the screen and the dress. She can’t see his face and stares at the back of his head. His hair is messed up and she wonders why. Before he came here, did he lay down? Did he try to sleep? Did he try to gather enough courage to come here and crash her evening? Whatever the reason, she has to stop herself from smoothing it down.  
Mulder’s comment is a soft “hm”. When he turns back to her, his cheeks look slightly flushed. Are his pupils dilated or is she imagining things? She banishes the thought from her mind.

“Do you want to hear my thoughts?” he asks.

“Always.”

“Well,” he starts, changing his position. It brings him closer to her once more. Her breath catches and she pretends it’s a sigh of irritation. Maybe it is frustration, she admits to herself. Of the sexual kind. Another thought she decides to banish. “It’s a nice dress.”

“Nice, Mulder?”

He nods, looking her up and down- She becomes fully aware of the pajamas she’s wearing. Her daily clothes are meant to make her look all business, competent. She chose these pajamas for comfort. She left her satin pajamas at home and picked her soft flannel ones. They’re adorned with tiny flowers and hearts, uncharacteristically girly. They’re a bit too big, easy to get lost in. She tugs at the top as if afraid it might have ridden up. She knows it hasn’t, but Mulder’s gaze is so piercing that it makes her squirm.

“I like the dress,” he says, his voice deep and sensual, “I just didn’t think you’d wear beige.” The way he says it makes it sound like a disease.

“It’s not beige,” she corrects him, “it’s salmon.”

“Potato, potatho.” He shrugs and then his hand is on her knee. Even through the thick fabric, she can feel him and the warmth that radiates off his skin. He’s taking liberties again, but she knows she only has to say the word and his touch will disappear. All this time, she could have stopped this, stopped him. One word and he’ll leave her alone. It’s not what she wants. Admitting it to herself is hard enough, admitting it to Mulder is another thing altogether.

“What color did you picture?” she asks, deciding to be brave. She’s rewarded with a grin and his hand very slowly, yet very deliberately sneaking upwards.

“Blue,” he replies without thinking about it. “Or black.” Like his eyes, she thinks. At least right now. She’s never seen him like this and for a moment she wonders if she should have checked him for head trauma or made sure he’s sober. But it’s just Mulder being Mulder. Making jokes, throwing innuendos. That’s all this is, isn’t it? The goosebumps crawling all over her skin disagree.

“Black. I have a black dress.” Except that she hasn’t worn it ages. What for? There hasn’t been a reason in so long. She doesn’t remember the last time she went on a date. It must have been years ago, when she still thought she could have a life away from this. Away from Mulder. Now, she can’t imagine a life that doesn’t involve him.

“You’d look stunning. Every man and woman would turn and look at you, wondering why you’re with a loser like me.”

“Mulder.” She’s distracted by his hand, moving up on her leg, coming to rest on her thigh.

“They’ll all want to be me. Be with you, hold your hand. Maybe… kiss you. But you picked me.” The last bit is almost a question. His thumb is gently rubbing her thigh, asking permission, asking so many questions all at once. “This is how I imagine it,” he says before she finds her own voice. “Your dress,” he clarifies. “It ends just about… here.” They both look at where his hand rests on her thigh. He’s not far off, she realizes. She takes his hand and moves it just a bit up.

“Actually,” she says, her voice catching on her words, “it’s here.”

“That’s…” he swallows hard.

“Nice?” she asks, amusement slipping into her voice. Mulder lifts his head and when did he get so close to her? They’re looking at each other. Behind them, the first award of the night is announced. There’s cheer and applause. But all that Scully hears is her own heartbeat. She puts her hand on his chest. Not to push him away; she just needs to feel him. His t-shirt is worn and soft. Everything is warm. His heart hammers against the tips of her fingers. He's still, watching her. He’s taken so many liberties tonight and now he’s waiting for her to do the same. It’s her turn.  
“I want to go to the opera,” she says, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. “Or the movies. I don’t care. You can wear an ugly tie if you want.”

He laughs. “What?”

But she doesn’t want to explain her thoughts to him, not now. She releases her lip and captures his. All her thoughts vanish into thin air. Her hands go behind his neck, pull him closer to her. He comes willingly. They kiss until they’re breathless. The warmth of her pajamas is replaced with the heat of Mulder’s skin against hers. There’s a moment when she thinks they’re moving too quickly. Her hand is on Mulder’s back and his muscles twitch under her touch. His eyes land on hers and she nods once, twice before his mouth crashes back on hers.

They’ve waited way too long.

In this, their first time, they’re both taking what they want and need. There’s no shyness, no thoughts of hesitation. Later, they find themselves entangled, still breathing heavily, and Mulder, still taking liberties, leaves his hand on her breast, grinning.

Even later, she wakes up and is disoriented for all of five seconds. Mulder is in her bed, chest bare, munching on sunflower seeds and watching TV. It really happened. In a motel room in Ohio, while on a case.

“Is that still…,” she asks with a yawn, her voice thick and sleepy. She stretches and she knows she’ll be sore in the morning. Too many muscles that haven’t been used in years.

“These award shows are long, Scully.” His eyes are glued to the screen where the show is still in progress. The show that started it all. She smiles to herself, smiles at Mulder. For someone who claims not to be interested in that kind of thing, he sure seems preoccupied. She doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep. Not long enough if the show is still on. Not long enough because she still feels exhausted.

“Mulder?”

“Hm?” Still not looking at her.

“I want to sleep.”

“Then sleep.”

“With you.” That makes him turn to her. “Not like that,” she says, blushing. “Sleep. Just sleep.” Though the sex is still on her mind. The way he touched her. The way he moved inside of her, filled her in ways she’s never been filled.

“It’s almost over.”

“What?”

“The show.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to…”

“Turn it off? Yes, please.” It’s not what he meant and they both know it. He looks at her, waiting. But she’s tired. She doesn’t want to talk or rationalize. Not tonight.

“I thought you wanted to know who wins.”

“I already know who won, Mulder.” She looks at him and it takes him a moment, a long moment. Then he smiles. He puts his small bag of sunflower seeds on the bedside table and turns off the TV. The room is bathed in comfortable darkness and Scully sighs. She listens to the rustle of the sheets and as soon as Mulder is still, she snuggles into his side.

“Did I win, Scully?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.

“We both did.”


End file.
